


twisted threads

by Anonymous



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, Manipulation, Mind Control, The Web - Freeform, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:27:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27836806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Emma’s gotten good at this. She brushes a strand of cobweb off Gertrude’s shoulder and watches as it drifts down to the ground.
Relationships: Emma Harvey/Gertrude Robinson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14
Collections: Anonymous, Consent Issues Exchange 2020





	twisted threads

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nelja-in-English (Nelja)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nelja/gifts).



> Nelja - I was inspired by your prompts for a Web-influenced Emma manipulating Gertrude into sex. I hope you enjoy.

“You look exhausted.” Emma drapes herself over Gertrude’s shoulders from behind, pressing her breasts against her scapula and letting her hair tumble against Gertrude’s neck. All the light in the basement is artificial, of course, but it feels appropriate that Gertrude’s office is nearly dark this late with only the desk lamp bending angular shadows over everything.

Gertrude remains impressively impassive and focused on the work in front of her. Something about her notes from Sannikov. Emma’d like to take a look at that later, since she knows Gertrude’s hardly going to tell her what happened with Michael under her own steam. Or perhaps she can work it out of her tonight.

“I’m rather busy at the moment.”

“You always say that.” Emma creeps her hands down over Gertrude’s cardigan, feeling the shape of her underneath it. Gertrude stiffens and she backs off a little. Sometimes she wishes she had Elias’s skill set for this, but she’s a string-puller at heart. She nestles her chin against Gertrude’s throat for now instead.

“It’s often true,” says Gertrude. The chair creaks under their combined weight. 

“Still no fun. Besides, you’ve had a trauma.”

Gertrude scoffs harshly. Emma knows her well enough to hear the guilt laced through her next words. Not that guilt has ever stopped Gertrude from doing what needs to be done. “Michael’s departure is a setback but hardly one I’m unprepared for. We can’t afford for anyone to be irreplaceable.”

“Even you? I can’t imagine this place with a different Head Archivist.” Gertrude gives her a flat look from the side, but her hands move on their own to set her pen down and push the notepad away.

“There was an Archivist before me, I’m sure there will be one after.”

“And wee little assistants running around following up on statements, I’m sure too. But you working yourself to the bone to hasten that day along doesn’t help anything.” Gertrude doesn’t react for a long moment. Eventually she sighs and leans back into her chair, into Emma. Perfect.

Gertrude was always the picture of professionalism where the rest of her assistants were concerned, but Emma had had the benefit of her trust from the beginning and a knack for finding the cracks. When this all started, they’d already gotten into the habit of spending evenings together, poring over statements and scribbling in the margins of books and commiserating over tea or something stronger. Gertrude’s sharp eyes would linger where they shouldn’t, and Emma would smile at her and feel the trap inching closed.

The first time, properly, they’d tumbled down in Gertrude’s bed and Emma had played her apart with fingers and tongue until Gertrude was gasping and limp and no longer thinking about the sad fate of Fiona Law. It was a useful trick. Emma had slunk out before dawn to wash the spider silk from her hair, and smiled bashfully at Gertrude when they passed in the hall the next day.

By now it’s an easy rhythm to slip into. She’ll push, and Gertrude will put up a feeble resistance, and eventually Emma will find the right string to tug to have her Archivist eating out of her palm, or between her legs, or anywhere else she wants her.

“Come on then,” Emma says, moving so she can hitch her skirt up and slide into Gertrude’s lap. Even through her clothing, she can feel the warmth of Gertrude’s body, and she rolls her hips into it indulgently. “What’s got you all zoned out tonight? You said Sannikov went alright. Surely there’s not another crisis on the horizon already.”

Gertrude tilts her head back so she can look at Emma more clearly. Her eyes are split behind the web of her eyelashes, fractalled into a multitude of dark shapes.

“What really happened to Sarah?” she asks.

Emma’s spine goes rigid. Her hands on Gertrude’s shoulders clench.

Poor dead Sarah Carpenter hadn’t wanted to go at all; Emma’d had to wheedle her for half an hour and promise to pay for dinner later. She’d ended up getting Chinese that night, eating crispy duck at a table alone and watching the rain outside with her clothes still smelling of smoke.

“What do you mean?”

“Going out alone. It was unlike her,” Gertrude says. Her voice is foggy and distant. It sounds, bizarrely, a bit like a recording being played back. The edge of an echo scrapes against Emma’s brain.

Emma slides her hands over Gertrude’s neck and up to cradle her skull. The bun falls apart easily and she’s left with two fistfuls of silvering hair, winding and twisting around her fingers. The strands are body-warm and she tugs gently until they spool against her skin. In the low light of the office, her hands are branches and the gossamer hair is an intricate web between them.

“Poor Sarah,” she says. “Shows up on time, does her work, goes home to her boring boyfriend, and she still went up like a bonfire. It’s a hazard of our line of work, I suppose.”

She slides one hand free to work it down the front of Gertrude’s skirt and into her knickers, sinking two fingers deep into her. Gertrude chokes on a gasp. Emma’s other hand curls tighter in the hair and guides that lovely, gullible brain to rest on her shoulder.

“What do you think happened to Sarah?” Emma asks against her ear.

“I think you - ” Gertrude rasps.

“You think I was somehow responsible, and you still let me do this to you?”

“You’re - oh.” Gertrude’s body arches in spite of itself, led by the marionettist's hand in her hair and the fingers in her slick cunt. “I can’t - ”

“It’s alright. It’s easier if you just relax.”

“ _Stop._ ” The word pins Emma in place almost as firmly as those eyes had earlier. 

“Do you really want me to do that?” she asks. Her fingers flex. “It won’t bring Sarah back. Or Michael, and that one was all you. He was so excited about going to Sannikov.”

“ _Stop._ ” The compulsion spits out again, weaker with every instance. Emma curls her fingers and grinds the heel of her palm against Gertrude’s mound, the waistband of her skirt digging into her forearm.

“One more time,” she croons against Gertrude’s cheek. The strands threaded over her hand weave tighter, cinching Gertrude against her. A tragic fly bound up in a web she half-spun herself. Elias had told her once that the Eye and the Spider were close cousins, and she believes it.

Gertrude doesn’t manage another word before she’s coming.

Her hips buck under Emma and she gasps wetly in her throat and her cunt squeezes. Emma pushes in a third finger just to hear the whine Gertrude makes, and shivers along with her. Gertrude’s arms hang limply at her sides, betraying her along with the rest of her body. 

Emma kneads at her skull, carefully, shifting it this way and that just to enjoy the way Gertrude obeys. She’s still shaking and her eyes have slipped closed. Gertrude is panting hard, sucking at comfort from an empty well. The strands of her hair cling to Emma’s fingers. They’re sticky with sweat.

Well. If she’s playing her hand this far. “Are you going to tell me,” Emma suggests, “what happened to Michael?”

Gertrude jerks against her, body stiffening. Emma strokes her fingers over her inner walls and enjoys the wet shudder she gets in return.

“Emma,” she says.

Poor Michael. Poor Sarah. Poor Gertrude, strung along so well she can’t even think clearly.

“Tell me,” she nudges, and Gertrude folds underneath her.

“It was a necessary sacrifice.”

“They all are, aren’t they. Here, come make it up to us.” She slips her fingers out of Gertrude and slides off her lap, lifting herself up onto the desk. With the hand still tangled in her hair, she guides Gertrude down.

For all she cultivates the doddering old woman look, Gertrude’s got good hands, steady now that Emma has given them a purpose. She tugs Emma’s tights and underwear down and works her way obediently between her thighs. Her cutting mouth is gentle against Emma’s folds as she licks inside.

“Higher,” Emma murmurs, and she tugs Gertrude up slightly. The angle shifts just right and Emma sighs into it, leaning back on her free hand. She traces absent patterns on the desk with the slick fluid still clinging to her fingers. “There you go. Give me a finger.”

The ringing tension is almost as arousing as the mouth on her clit. Emma pulls her strings and Gertrude obeys like a perfect little puppet but even Emma knows her control is tenuous. A dangerous animal on a leash is still a threat if you don’t mind its teeth. She fucks her hips up against Gertrude’s face as her orgasm nears.

“Another one.” Obedience, even through the taut lines of Gertrude’s body. Emma hadn’t known when she met the spiders just how good it would taste. The two fingers inside her curl and stroke and Gertrude’s tongue rubs against the side of her clit.

“Did he suspect, do you think?” Emma asks, working her hips down against Gertrude. “Sarah walked right in, even went ahead of me. I could watch her go. I think you’d have liked that. Did you watch Michael?” Gertrude moans into her, a deep animal lowing sound. 

“You can try to fight it, but we always win in the end. Surely someone with your - oh - _vision_ can tell that,” Emma cajoles. Her hand in Gertrude’s hair tightens and with a heavy sigh she comes on Gertrude’s fingers.

She puppets Gertrude up by the hair to kiss her, the slick taste of herself on Gertrude’s chin. Her eyes are clouded and watery, desolated with guilt, but even that eases as Emma strokes her hands over her skull and smooths down her hair.

“Feel better?” she asks, just a breath of voice on Gertrude’s lips. 

The shame still festers and lingers like it always does, but it’ll wear off by morning. Gertrude will wake up with a throbbing, blank headache and a soreness between her legs, and Emma will be right behind her as always, the trusted confidant, pulling her strings and guiding Gertrude’s sharp eyes. 

Emma’s gotten good at this. She brushes a strand of cobweb off Gertrude’s shoulder and watches as it drifts down to the ground. 

Finally she lets go. Gertrude sinks back in her chair and her shoulders heave as she struggles to catch her breath. She wipes the back of her hand over her mouth. Emma tugs her own clothes back into place and soaks in the view.

“You should go home,” she suggests. “Get some rest. You’re tired. I’ll put an ad in for a couple new assistants to replace poor Sarah and Michael, and we can go on saving the world.” There’s no frisson of compulsion in her voice. It’s just strings, tugging and nudging. Pointing out the obvious. _You need me. See what I do for you? Couldn’t do it without me._

“I’m tired,” Gertrude agrees, still biddable with catharsis. Emma loves it like this, when she gets so worn-out and pliant and she can push a little harder. Gertrude adjusts her cardigan and the waistband of her skirt and rises to her feet. Her movements are stiff and disjointed as a crude marionette as she collects her bag, folds her notes together and shrugs into her coat. The dim light catches filaments of her hair.

“We’re too much alike, you and me,” she laughs. Gertrude just looks at her a long moment before she leaves. Emma can’t read her eyes in the shadow. She knows she’s right, though. 

The Eye and the Spider are close cousins, after all.


End file.
